


Apple Picking

by trustmeimjoly



Series: Vies d'Amis [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, cute and fluffy, short and sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:53:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22172863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustmeimjoly/pseuds/trustmeimjoly
Summary: It's a lovely sunny day, and Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta go apple picking.
Relationships: Joly/Bossuet Laigle/Musichetta
Series: Vies d'Amis [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1596019
Kudos: 13





	Apple Picking

**Author's Note:**

> These three are my favorite Amis and my favorite pairing, so I just HAD to give them a fluffy oneshot.  
> Enjoy!

“Are you sure you don’t want me to help, chéri?”

It was a beautiful day. The sky was a brilliant, dazzling blue, small clouds splattered like paint among its endless depth, and the sun softly caressed the earth with its golden fingers. The air was filled with the smell of grass and summer; and Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta had decided that they simply could not let the sunlight go to waste. 

Courfeyrac had a cousin, Monsieur de Montreuil, who owned a large piece of land that he had cultivated into fields of wheat and orchards, and he often encouraged the young man to invite his friends to come pick the fruits themselves. By now, the trio was well-acquainted with the Montreuils, and their decision to come here to spend the afternoon had been unanimous.

Baskets had been taken up, and after a short drive out of the city and a greeting of the landlord, they’d gotten to the orchards, where the apple trees waited, gorged with rain and sunlight, to be relieved of their burden; a task gladly undertaken.

Bossuet turned to his boyfriend with a soft look in his eyes. The heavy basket at his side bobbed around as he ambled through the trees, and the crate he held at his hip kept slipping, but they were by no means too heavy. 

“I’m fine, Jollly, there’s only two of them,” Bossuet reassured with a smile. “Besides, we did say you should be the one to make that bouquet for Chetta. You have the more artistic hand.” 

Joly huffed out a laugh, his cane leaving soft imprints in the grass as he walked, bending down here and there to pick the wildflowers that poked through the ground near the trees. Marigolds, daffodils and hyssops, all reds and yellows and purple. Chetta was sure to love it.

Bossuet smiled, then, and readjusted his grip on his load. It was a beautiful day.

“Bossuet, mon cœur, are you sure you want to fill that basket so much?” 

Musichetta had appeared at their side, her long purple skirt swishing around her ankles, a basket of the fruits atop her head, one hand balancing it and the other holding a bright red half-eaten apple.

“Well, I must make up for the apples you eat before paying now, mustn’t I, chérie?” Bossuet answered, his lips twitching into a smile at the sight of her.

“Oh hush, Bossuet, I’ve only had one,” Musichetta said, rolling her eyes affectionately as her boys laughed. 

The cheerful sound echoed for a moment among the chirping of crickets before Joly spoke. 

“Chetta, mon amour, please accept these flowers as a humble sign of our joint affection,” he said, winking at Bossuet, then grinning and handing her the array of wildflowers he’d picked with a bow. 

Musichetta smiled fondly as she took the colourful bouquet from him, setting her basket down and bringing the flowers close to her face, her eyes closed blissfully as she inhaled. 

“Thank you, chéri. I thought nothing could make this a better afternoon, and you’ve proven me wrong,” she smiled, leaning down slightly to kiss her boyfriend.

It was a beautiful day. But of course, it was Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta, and therefore no perfect afternoon could avoid a small mishap.

Bossuet, attempting to readjust his grip on the crate at his side, hit Joly with his elbow, fumbled with the smooth wood and without any other warning, the crate toppled, apples spilling over its edges and onto the grass and protruding roots.

There was a split second of not-so-stunned silence before Joly’s laugh rang out, Bossuet and Musichetta immediately joining him.

He bent down, his bad leg extending behind him as he picked up two of the apples and rolled his eyes fondly. “They’re a little bruised,” he said, a smile in his voice.

“But still beautiful!” Bossuet claimed as he set down crate and basket, plucking up some more apples from the ground in the same motion. “Like you, mon  
amour,” he told Joly with a grin.

Musichetta was still laughing quietly. There was no real surprise anymore to their daily adventures, but that didn’t mean she didn’t take the laughter when she could. Better bruised apples than bruised bodies, though her two boys found increasingly creative ways to fix things they’d made a mess of, dragging her into the process. Not that she ever minded.

The three of them finished collecting the fallen apples, and Bossuet put the now-filled crate near the forgotten basket. He looked around for a moment, and promptly plopped down under the branches of the tree, wriggling to sit comfortably. 

“This is a good spot,” he stated as settled down with his back on the trunk. Looking back up to his partners with simple, caring expectancy, he chuckled before answering Musichetta’s raised eyebrow. “There is still time before the sun goes down. I wish to lounge on this soft grass and would love it if you joined me.”

Joly laughed, love and joy collecting in the lines of his eyes and lips, before taking a book out from among the apples he’d stored in his tote bag and sitting down with his back propped comfortably on Bossuet’s side, his bad leg stretched out and his head leaning back on his boyfriend’s shoulder. Musichetta shook her head fondly, her eyes shining with something like adoration as she moved her basket aside and lay down with her head in Bossuet’s lap.

“I have a perfect use for your clumsy hands, mon soleil,” she told Bossuet before handing him the bouquet Joly had made. “Would you braid these into my hair, please?”

Bossuet took the flowers with cheerful acquiescence as he started carding his fingers through her curls, and Musichetta hummed contentedly, settling back into his warmth.

They lay there for an eternal instant of golden afternoon, Musichetta softly singing as Bossuet worked through her locks and Joly read, his eyes often straying from the pages to gaze upon his two lovers in the sun-dappled shade.

Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta were in love.

It was a beautiful day.

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone has doubts about the french in this, it's:  
> chéri(e): dear  
> mon amour: my love  
> mon soleil: my sun


End file.
